


Catastrophe Boys

by castronomicaaal



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drugs, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castronomicaaal/pseuds/castronomicaaal
Summary: Peter Parker is sent to stay in a group home wherein he meets Bucky Barnes, a dark and mysterious boy with a secret or two of his own.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	1. Prelude

_Daydream_  
_Life feels like a daydream_  
_And I just wish that I could wake up_  
_I just wish that I could wake up_

Peter doesn’t want to be here.

The room feels like it is spinning a million miles a minute and there is a slight stench of vomit to his left that perturbs his nose each time he sniffs. His groan is diluted, a deep mumble mixed with a growl and he swears he can hear it echo off the walls.

Maybe if he rests his eyes, just for a moment, he will feel better.

_Penis Parker, king of the fuck-ups, cannot do anything right._

Peter wakes with a start, his cheeks flushed rouge. He attempts to move but there is an unbearable pain within his chest that pulls him back down. His eyes flicker open, scanning his surroundings the best he can, though all he can make out is the dark and dust which begins to collect in his throat. He coughs abruptly, clutching his stomach as the pain begins forcing its way down his chest, into the innermost pit of his being.

Peter wants to cry, he wants to curl up into a ball and die. He is certain It would feel better than this. He allows the quiet to lull him into a second slumber.

When Peter comes to he is clutching a medicine bottle, the words _May Parker_ etched into the side. Peter coughs and splutters, vomit on his chin, before throwing the bottle across the room.

He assess the situation before frowning deeply, pulling his body up into a seated position. He crosses both arms around his legs and begins to rock back and forth, allowing the tears to fall freely in the middle of a random alleyway in Queens.

Peter was supposed to die. The pills were supposed to work, but yet here he is; alive and just as miserable as before.

_Penis Parker, king of the fuck-ups, cannot do anything right._

Those words echo in his head, over and over like a debilitating taunt.


	2. Week One

_Well I guess I messed things up again. Is this all I'll ever be?  
I was trying to be a better person but I'm weak, I'm weak, I'm weak_

Peter gets sent to a new group home on a Thursday afternoon.

One too many sneak-outs and write-ups have led to this moment. It is not like Peter cares in the least bit, anyhow. The last foster dad was a grade a creep and made his skin crawl more than once.

Now he’s being left on the stoop of a large but falling apart home. His case worker rings the bell and the rest is history.

By the time dinner comes around, Peter is starving. He has not had a good meal in days, not while out on the streets. He picks at his spaghetti, chomping down on half burnt garlic bread, when the front door slams open.

Peter and the five other boys at the table all turn to look, intrigue setting in as a young man with shoulder length brown hair and a cigarette hanging in between his lips storms into the house. Their group mother yells something about ‘lack of respect’ to which the male flips her off and disappears beyond the stairs. Another door slams shut moments later.

Peter shrugs before returning to his meal. His motto regarding group homes and foster care has always remained the same: _ignore and stay safe_.

He takes another bite of his meatball, swallowing it down in one gulp.

Hours later and Peter is sitting outside on the roof, the chilly night air swallows his frame but he does not care. He feels chilled to the bone and it is thrilling, to feel something so deeply. He has felt so little in forever.

Peter swipes at his lighter, hand cupping around the cigarette in his mouth, and lights his cigarette. He breathes the nicotine in, allows it to absorb into his body, before blowing a strand of smoke out in between two pink and parted lips.

He has never been much of a smoker, not before foster care became his norm. Mostly he just likes the way the smoke feels as it falls past his lips. Even better, he enjoys the feel of the tip of a cigarette against his flesh.

Peter puts out the light on his arm, wincing and closing both eyes tight due to the pain. Eventually the burn simmers down to a slight tinge and he pulls away. He admires the circular shaped mark left on his arm, smiling slightly to himself.

He presses the mark to his lips, kissing the scar, before flicking the cigarette off of the side of the roof and crawling back inside through the open window.

Sleep eventually finds Peter and he falls into a restless slumber.

* * *

“Did you know that bakelite is the name of the first synthetic plastic to have ever been developed?” The boy sitting to Peter’s right questions excitedly, his hands moving animatedly before him.

Peter does his best to ignore him, spooning cereal into his open mouth instead.

“And,” he continues, eyes wide, “zero doesn’t exist as a digit in the world of Roman Numerals. Truly fascinating.”

“Hmm,” Peter pretends to care, nodding absentmindedly though his eyes are still trained on his bowl of food.

“I’m Tony, by the way.” He extends his hand. Peter reluctantly shakes it. _It doesn’t matter,_ his mind tells him, _I won’t be here long enough to care._

“Peter,” he reciprocates, forcing a curt smile.

“Hi Peter. I‌ like to build things, how about you? If you have the time, I‌ could even show you what I’ve been working on, it’s in the shed. Maybe after –”

“Tony,” a voice booms from the doorway, causing both young men to jump and startle. “Shut the hell up, would you?”

Peter looks up and meets eyes with the boy from last night, the one who had stormed in like he owned the place. His icy blue eyes gaze back, but there is no warmth there. Peter looks away hurriedly.

Tony scatters off as the male takes his seat at the table.

He is bigger than Peter, noticeably larger in both stature and height. Boys like him, they used to scare Peter; back when he cared. Now it does not matter. They could not possible hurt him more than he can hurt himself.

To his mild surprise, the boy simply salutes him with two fingers against his forehead. “Bucky,” he offers nonchalantly, taking a bowl and dumping the remainder of the cereal into it. He sloshes in some milk before taking a large bite.

“I’m Peter,” he responds, shrugging his falling sweatshirt back onto his shoulder.

Neither attempts to make further communication, simply sitting together in their mutual misery.

* * *

Peter pretends to read in the corner of the living room.

Really, he fingers the torn pages, feeling the paper in between his fingertips. A rogue page cuts his fingertip and he pulls back to lick at the little blood droplets that form. One in particular slips past his lips, falling onto the page below.

Peter looks down, watching the blood spread, and reads the words beneath.

_The secret of life, though, is to fall seven times and to get up eight times._

He huffs out a cold laugh in response before closing the book and looking at the authors name.

“Paulo Coelho,” he whispers to himself, shaking his head. “What an ass.”

Peter is in the midst of tossing the book aside when the couch he is on weighs down, signaling another occupant. He turns, eyeing the female with an unappreciative stare.

Despite his clear annoyance, the woman smiles softly. “Peter, I‌ wanted to stop and speak with you. How are you making out these past few days?”

“Why do you care, Natalie?” He wonders, pulling out his pack of cigarettes. He lights one and puts it in between his lips, taking a long drag.

Her smile falters a bit. “It’s Natasha,” she pauses, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. She puts it out before tossing it into the trashcan beside the couch. “And no smoking indoors.”

“Sure, _Natasha_.” Peter drawls out mockingly. They are always nice at first, the foster parents, then they show their true colors a week or two in. Give it a few days and she will be begging Peter for a sloppy blowjob in the foyer. They always do.

She pauses, sighing deeply, before swiping her hands over her skirt, smoothing out the fabric. Natasha stands afterwards, shooting Peter one more pleading stare before walking away.

He does not bother watching her as she goes.

* * *

_He is alone in the woods, nothing and nobody around him save for the trees which stand too high for Peter to make out their tops._

_It is freezing and there is a stench in the air that coats Peter’s throat._

_He wants to run but his feet will not move. He is stuck, stuck and unable to do anything but scream mindlessly for help. The more he yells, the further he descends into the earth below._

_It swallows him whole._

Peter wakes with a start, his stomach dropping as he balks abashedly, hands clasping the sheets beneath him as though they’re a lifeline - they may as well be.

He takes a moment afterwards to compose himself, breathing deeply in and out.

 _It’s just another nightmare_ , he chides to himself. _You’re here, you’re okay_.

He is here, but he is certainly far from okay.


	3. Week Two

_So, if you find that I'm sleeping  
Soft and warm as a child  
Would you just let me be  
For a moment happy and free?  
Oh, won't you please let me dream a while?_

Natasha leave early the next morning for groceries and Tony is quick to wake up Peter from his sleep.

Peter pops up from under the sheets, swinging wildly until Tony is able to grab him by the hands and pull his arms away.

“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters. “Last time I try and wake you up.”

“What the hell, Tony?” He spits out, voice venomous. He trails a hand through his loose curls, sweat soaked and messy. Tony is lucky he had not pulled his switchblade.

“Nat is out, beer time.” He says simply before shrugging and walking away.

Peter coughs deeply before huffing out a sound of annoyance. He untangles himself from the sheets before tossing them to the end of the bed. Glancing at the clock on the wall, Peter realizes it is only ten in the morning.

He briefly contemplates simply going back to sleep, but the noise downstairs is growing louder and the smell of alcohol tickles his nose.

Peter sniffs and then throws on an old shirt before making his way downstairs, taking each step two at a time.

Tony already has a half empty beer can in his hands and Peter cannot help but roll his eyes. The boy simply smiles and shrugs in response before taking off towards the living room.

“What the hell is this?” Peter can’t help but question upon entering the kitchen. There are cans and bottles of beer scattered all around. “What is the big deal about beer around here?”

Pietro, one of the boys living in the house, smirks candidly. “Natasha does not allow us to have any alcohol on the premises. Ever.”

Peter nods, taking a bottle for himself. He cracks the lid off before taking a long swig. The beer tastes like shit going down, just the way he likes it.

Pietro lifts his cup and Peter figures why the hell not, clinking their drinks together. He then turns and follows after Tony and into the living room.

Six or seven boys, the majority of the group home, sits on the living room floor, laughing and talking in between sips of beer. Peter scowls as he watches the scene unfold.

“They are all naive,” he mumbles aloud, pressing his lips against the neck of the bottle. His throat constricts and he swallows thickly.

No one in group is really a friend; Peter learned that one the hard way.

He was twelve when he got sent to his first foster home, a _nice_ couple from the suburbs with two kids of their own and one other foster girl. Her name was MJ and she broke his goddamn heart.

Peter is not interested in reliving the past, but he cannot help but close his eyes and sniff at the air. If he squeezes both eyes shut tight enough, he swears he can still smell her perfume. He briefly wonders where she might have ended up, but shakes away the thought. He is better off never knowing.

First she stole his heart, then his money, and finally the only thing he had left of his mother – a gold hairbrush with a broken handle. Peter refused to forgive her after that, and once authorities found out about the couple and the beatings they had been giving to Peter on a daily basis, he was transferred from their care and he never heard the name MJ again, except for in his nightmares.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Peter is jolted back to reality by a voice to his left. He turns, looks upwards, and spots Bucky casually staring down at him. He does not seem to have a drink in hand, just simply watches the others as they make fools of themselves.

“Are you like, one hundred or something?” Peter counters, snorting before taking another drink. “Penny for your thoughts, really? Sounds like something my…”

He trails off lamely, swallowing back his words. He does not want to think about that right now, about her.

“Grandma used to say it,” Bucky shrugs, tucking a loose strand of dark hair back behind his ear. Peter absentmindedly wonders what he would look like if he had shoulder length hair. “Beer taste good?”

Peter smirks, raising his glass. “Tastes like warm piss,” he offers with a lighthearted scoff.

Bucky nods, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “As pleasant as that sounds, I’ve got the good stuff upstairs in my room if you are ever interested.”

Peter quirks a brow. “I thought Natasha banned alcohol?”

“She did,” Bucky responds. “But she also does not know about the loose floorboards upstairs. Great hiding place for a lot of things.”

Peter nods. “Duly noted.”

* * *

It is colder tonight than the last time he was out here on the roof.

Peter briefly wonders if Natasha knows about the broken attic window leading up to the roof. He thinks she probably would have it fixed had she been aware. Peter is not dumb enough to try, but there are plenty of idiot kids in the system who would risk broken bones jumping from the third story roof edge if it meant escaping.

He prefers doing things the easy way; a little drug cocktail in their evening drink and they are out like a light for the next five hours. Peter can simply walk out the front door.

He has only ever had to use that method twice, both in extreme circumstances. Things so far have not been bad enough that he would rather risk freezing to death on a public bus bench than be sleeping beneath warm covers, even if he is forced to share a room with three other boys.

Natasha has been, all things considered, _nice_ thus far. Though Peter is still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He pulls at a loose thread along the hem of his tee shirt, pulling and pulling until the materiel begins to unravel at the bottom. Peter shivers deeply, blowing a warm stream of air out past his lips that turns visible to the eye.

Winter is coming, that is the only certain inevitability in Peter’s life right now.

Whether he will still be around to see it is up in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, I have no self control when it comes to posting. Basically I will be adding to this story whenever I finish a chapter or feel like updating. Please do comment and leave kudos or bookmark if you enjoy! Comments make my world go round.


	4. Week Three

_Look what I did, I made a mess  
Blood on my hands is sentimental  
Could be that I was just depressed_

The wind blows harshly as Peter makes his way down the sidewalk. He tosses his hood up over his head in hopes of keeping warm, pulling his backpack tighter against his back.

It is his first time out of the home in the past few weeks, something Natasha had said he had ‘earned’ by being good.

His fingertips trace absentminded patterns against the fabric of his pants, sweat coating his palms as he continues to walk at a fast pace. He is almost there.

Soon enough the gravestones make their presence, Peter can see grey for what feels like miles, and he counts each stone as he passes in hopes of calming himself down.

“Fifty-seven,” he eventually breathes out, stomach turning. Before him rests a modestly sized tombstone, moss beginning to grow in between the cracks of the words.

 _‘In loving memory of May Parker  
_ _1967-2016_   
_Peace begins with a smile.’_

Peter cannot help but immediately choke up. “H-hey, May.” He offers lamely to no one but a stone. He sits down and crosses both legs Indian style, fingertips playing with the strands of grass beneath him.

“It’s been a while,” he supplies lamely, sighing deeply. “Almost a year.”

Peter hates the truth in that sentence. May would be so disappointed to know he only visits so rarely. Even though it is hard for Peter to bring himself to come here.

“I’m in another group home. This one feels…different. Our foster mom is actually pretty nice, though I’m still waiting for her to corner me in an upstairs bedroom.” Peter chuckles despite his free flowing tears. He wipes his thumb below his right eye, collecting the droplet of salty water that rests there.

“May,” he offers moments after, much more somberly, “I’m so sorry. Sorry I‌ could not save you. You never deserved this.”

Peter begins to sob in earnest, his hands clutching the grass like a lifeline.

He hates thinking about it, remembering any second of it. Peter was twelve and May was his aunt/mom. His parents had passed in a car crash when he was five, and May’s husband, Peter’s Uncle Ben, was murdered during a bank robbery gone wrong two years prior. Since then it was just Peter and May, May and Peter; two sad ‘ol peas in a pod.

They were at the ice cream shoppe.

May had promised Peter a large peanut butter cone for his good grades the past semester and intended on delivering.

They were seated on the bench nearby the building when it happened. A man whom Peter had never seen before and will never forget had approached May, asking for directions.

Peter did not pay the man much mind, far too busy enjoying his cone.

He remembers her gasp more so than anything else. It was loud and deafening, sharp and piercing to the ears. Peter looked up just in time to see his aunt being stabbed multiple times in the back and stomach. She did not stand a chance, too shocked to fight back.

People around them began to scream, to call for help, but Peter cannot remember hearing any voices in that moment. He simply sat there in shock, eyes wide and shoulders slumped.

He made eye contact with May who had tears in her eyes, her face drained and pale, and licked at his ice cream cone. She reached forward and held his hand and died right before him.

When the ambulance arrived she laid dead across the picnic table, hand still in Peter’s. Peter’s other hand was holding a running cone, peanut butter dripping down his arm.

Peter shivers at the thought as he rests before May’s grave, his stomach turning over and over in circles.

He curls up beside the grave, clinging on for dear life.

When he wakes, it is dark out and a soft layer of snow has made its way down from the sky. Peter swallows thickly before yawning and stretching into a more comfortable position.

Maybe if he stays real still and falls back to sleep the snow will take him in the night, back to May, back to his parents, back to Uncle Ben.

* * *

Natasha is furious the moment she spots a shivering, slightly paler Peter making his way up the stairs to the group home the next morning.

“Where in the hell were you?” She hisses, pulling him tight to her chest much to his dismay. “We were worried.”

Peter pulls away, chuckling loudly in a way that causes Natasha to shiver in fear. “Worried? Nat, you don’t even _know_ me. Worry about your fucking self.”

He storms in past her, slamming the door shut behind him, leaving her standing stunned on the front porch. He takes the stairs quickly, ripping open the bathroom door without thinking to knock. He needs to splash cold water on his face.

What he does not expect to find is Bucky, pants around his ankles with a pretty girl in between his legs, her mouth around his long cock. He has a hand in her hair, pulling her taught to him, head tilted back in clear arousal. He turns and makes eye contact with Peter, grinning slightly.

“Ahem, sorry.” Peter frowns deeply, closing the door quickly. He turns, leaning his back against the bathroom door frame. His heartbeat increases as he thinks about the scene he had just witnessed and Peter realizes sheepishly that it has been a while since he has last masturbated, too caught up in his own misery to really be concerned with pleasure.

He briefly wonders who the girl is, what her lips would feel like brushing against his own cock, what Bucky’s hand would feel like pulling _his_ hair.

Peter shakes away the thought, embarrassed and face flushed.

He runs into his room before Bucky or the girl can come out and see him still standing there like a pervert.

* * *

Peter pulls another drag from his cigarette before blowing smoke out past his lips.

He is seated on his bed, replaying his fight with Natasha over and over. He knows he should not care, but he cannot help in feeling annoyed at himself by his own actions. This is the best group home Peter has ever lived in, and it would be a shame to be kicked out for pissing off his foster mom. Despite his better judgement, Peter is beginning to _like_ it here.

He is just about to suck it up, go downstairs and apologize, beg for forgiveness, when his door opens,

Peter looks up and is embarrassed to see the full face of the girl he had walked in on earlier. She simply smiles his way, eyes wide and playful. She takes a seat beside Peter on his bed, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and inhaling for herself.

“You are Peter?”

He nods absentmindedly, distracted by her cherry red lips. He has never met a girl so young and so composed all at once. She must really be fucked up, too, Peter decides quickly. All the pretty, mischievous ones are.

“I’m Wanda, you know Pietro?” She questions. Peter nods again. Wanda grins. “I’m his twin sister.”

“Oh,” is all Peter can manage to say. She smells very good and she is sitting so close to him.

“Sorry you had to see that earlier, Bucky can be a needy asshole sometimes.” She giggles, swiping her thumb across her lower lip.

Peter’s face flushes despite his best efforts. “Sorry for uh, for walking in on you.”

Wanda leans in closer, lips pressing against Peters ear. Her breath tickles his flesh. “Don’t be. I‌ liked it.”

And then she pulls back, as though she was never there to begin with, and takes another drag before handing the cigarette back over to Peter.

“Gotta go, Pete.” She supplies, standing up from his bed. “I’m in the girls group home down the street. Better get back before lights out.” She leaves him with a wink.

Peter sits in silence afterwards, palming his half hard cock through his pants and thanking God for his roommates being out for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if Bucky/Wanda isn't your cup of tea. They're not in a relationship, just fuck buddies sometimes. Wanda has a bit of a complex and sleeps around in the group home.


	5. Week Four

_Oh, I hope some day I'll make it out of here  
Even if it takes all night or a hundred years  
Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near  
Wanna feel alive, outside I can fight my fear_

Peter licks his thumb before wiping it across the paper and rolling it up tight, doing his best to keep the contents inside. He then places the joint to his mouth.

To his left, Tony strikes a match and lights the tip up. Peter lets out a small sigh of relief as the weed enters his system. He takes a long drag before pulling back and breathing out deeply. He smirks at Tony appreciatively, to which Tony returns to him a grin of his own.

Peter passes over the joint, rolling it briefly in between his fingertips before giving it to Tony to take a taste of his own.

“Thanks for sharing,” Peter nods thankfully, relaxing into the mattress.

Tony waves him off. “Absolutely no problem, my man. Not at all.”

“So,” Peter starts, eyes dilating due to the drug, “what is the deal with that Wanda chick?”

Tony grins like a cat who got the cream, sitting up taller on the bed. “Ah, so you have met the lovely Wanda Maximoff.”

Peter nods. “Caught her blowing Bucky in the bathroom.”

Tony snorts before shaking his head and taking another hit. “Of course. You know, Wanda is the tightest pussy I’ve ever had. You could definitely take her around for a spin or two, if you wanted of course.”

Peter sputters briefly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “You’ve slept with her? I‌ thought she was with Bucky?”

Tony lets out a deep belly laugh. “Yeah fucking right.” He hands the joint back over to Peter who parts his lips and breathes in. “She fucks everyone around here, Petey. Some sort of complex; I‌ think her dad must of touched her or something when she lived at home, made her the way she is.”

Peter grimaces at the thought, shaking it away. “I do not want her that way,” he lies, albeit only a little bit. Wanda is not his normal type. Briefly he thinks about MJ and her long dark legs and those deep hazel eyes. And then he remembers those cherry red lips of Wanda’s and sighs deeply. Wanda would be the ying to MJ’s yang, Peter decides.

Still, a bigger part of Peter feels guilty for even considering sleeping with Wanda. If Tony is telling the truth, she has some serious problems that Peter would not want to touch with a ten foot poll. He would feel far too ashamed to contribute to her destruction. Peter has plenty of his own destruction to focus on, anyhow.

Peter takes one more long drag before flicking the ashes off and onto the carpet, he sweeps them under his bed with his foot.

* * *

Natasha insists on taking the boys out to dinner Friday evening.

Peter does not want to go, he does not want to risk bonding more than he already has with any of the other boys. Natasha had persisted up and down until he felt bad and relented.

Now they are seated at Olive Garden, looking over the menu, and Peter feels suddenly stupid. There is no way he can afford any of this food, he barely has twenty dollars to his name.

“Nat, I‌ can’t –‌ ”

She seems to read his face because she waves him off with a flick of the wrist. “My treat, of course.”

This does not really make Peter feel any better, he hates taking money from people, but the look on her face shuts him up.

He enjoys his pasta, it is warm food and that is more than he could have hoped for, and the conversation is decent enough even if he does not talk much himself.

On the way back, he ends up sitting beside Bucky in the back of the van.

Peter feels a bit nervous, his stomach settles weirdly in his stomach. They have not spoken since he accidentally walked in on Bucky getting a hummer.

For the most part the trip is quiet, at least for the twosome in the back. Peter eventually chances a glance at Bucky, surprised to find the boy already staring at him intently.

He blushes slightly before looking away, feeling stupid for having been caught looking, even if Bucky was looking first.

For the remainder of the trip Peter is hyper aware of Bucky’s arm pressed against his own.

* * *

Peter decides it is too chilly to step out onto the roof tonight, opting instead to settle upon the floor. He turns up his iPad slightly, just loud enough that he can hear it, and hmms along to the song.

_Sing me to sleep  
Sing me to sleep  
And then leave me alone  
Don't try to wake me in the morning  
'Cause I will be gone  
Don't feel bad for me  
I want you to know  
Deep in the cell of my heart  
I will feel so glad to go  
_

Peter cannot help but begin to cry, his tears spilling down past his cheeks. He misses his parents, he misses their warm hugs and forehead kisses.

He misses how Uncle Ben used to teach him baseball; the way Aunt May would comfort him whenever he was upset.

Now he is all alone, with nobody’s arms to wrap around him beside his own.

Peter pulls the pills from his pocket, thumbing them around in between his fingers. He does not want to be here anymore, he just wants to forget about everything.

He crushes the oxycodone onto the floor before rolling an empty joint. Peter takes the joint within his fingertips and leans over, snorting up the powder. It burns his nose and he wipes at the residue left over, his body slowly accommodating to the drug.

The last face he sees before he slumps over is that of his Aunt May’s.


End file.
